Read Online Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford - Free Book Online
Authors: Ryan Craig Bradford
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hitchhiker, ending it with a loud yell that doesn’t scare anybody. Steve’s idea of a ghost story is just some zombie tale, but it keeps going off on gory tangents. When he starts to talk about gouging eyes, Megan asks him to stop.
“Gross. Let’s do something else.”
With the liquor gone and our courage replenished, we decide to look at the headstones. A lot of graves are tagged or broken from weekend visitors.
“Look at this one.”
Here Lies Phillip T. Wright
Born: March 29, 1895
Died: May 21, 1957
Smoker
The word “shitassmotherfucker” is tagged on it.
“A warning from the grave,” Steve says, curling his fingers toward Megan. In a demonic, guttural voice, he says: “Don’t smoke, shit-ass-mother-fucker.”
“Stop it.”
“Look, here’s another one.” Ally leans in close to brush some dirt off the tombstone. It’s an old-fashioned cross with one of the arms broken off. Someone drew a heart with initials in it: an RB and JB. I wonder if it is the handiwork of the disgusting couple in the car. The tombstone reads:
Here lies Abigail T. Buchanan
Born: October 14, 1943
Died: October 14, 1957
A Touching Angel, In Loving Splendor
“She died on the same day she was born,” Ally says. “On her fourteenth birthday.”
Same age as Ally.
“C’mon,” Steve says, drunk and flirting with Megan. “Let’s go look at the other graves.” I get the hint and don’t tag along.
“You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Ally asks after our friends disappear.
“Sure.”
“How come?” She sits down and leans against the dead girl’s broken tombstone. I sit next to her.
“I guess it’s a little boring to think that I can touch everything that scares me.”
She considers my answer. I try to picture what she looks like under her sweatshirt, but the residual unease of the graveyard dulls my imagination. “That’s probably the best reason I’ve heard for believing in ghosts,” she says. “Still not going to convince me though.” She puts her hand on mine and leans against me. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose.
“How many funerals have you been to?” I ask.
“Just one. It was my grandpa’s. I was pretty young, so I didn’t understand the whole death thing. I just remember everyone crying. But I do remember him. It actually makes me pretty sad to think that I didn’t cry at his funeral.”
“You were little.”
“Yeah.”
“Kids are dumb.” I add, which makes her smile.
“I know.”
“So let’s say there are ghosts, and you could see any dead person you wanted. Would it be your grandpa?”
“So theoretically there are ghosts”—she looks up from my shoulder to emphasize her doubt—“and I could pick any dead person to see.” She pauses and considers her options. I move my arm around her shoulder so we’re cuddling. “I actually think I would want to see my old golden retriever, Brittany. I think seeing a ghost dog would be like a hundred times more adorable than seeing a human ghost.”
I knew she wouldn’t take my question seriously.
“Who would you want to see?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You know, you’re just afraid to say it. I’m afraid to say it too.”
“I don’t know if he’s dead though,” I say.
“Yeah—” Ally trails off. She snuggles closer to me, and my hand drops from her shoulder to her waist. “Do you miss him?”
“It seems a lot of things remind me of him lately,” I say.
She’s quiet before saying the words that I should’ve said, “I miss him.”
A breeze picks up. She leans in closer for warmth. The wind tosses dead leaves around in little whirlwinds and drowns out the shouting and laughter of our friends. Time slows down. Her hair blows in my face. I don’t even brush it away. The moonlight flickers on our moment. She raises her head and our eyes meet. She looks at me like a stranger. She leans in. With eyes closed in anticipation, I feel the warmth of her mouth pressing on
“Gross. Let’s do something else.”
With the liquor gone and our courage replenished, we decide to look at the headstones. A lot of graves are tagged or broken from weekend visitors.
“Look at this one.”
Here Lies Phillip T. Wright
Born: March 29, 1895
Died: May 21, 1957
Smoker
The word “shitassmotherfucker” is tagged on it.
“A warning from the grave,” Steve says, curling his fingers toward Megan. In a demonic, guttural voice, he says: “Don’t smoke, shit-ass-mother-fucker.”
“Stop it.”
“Look, here’s another one.” Ally leans in close to brush some dirt off the tombstone. It’s an old-fashioned cross with one of the arms broken off. Someone drew a heart with initials in it: an RB and JB. I wonder if it is the handiwork of the disgusting couple in the car. The tombstone reads:
Here lies Abigail T. Buchanan
Born: October 14, 1943
Died: October 14, 1957
A Touching Angel, In Loving Splendor
“She died on the same day she was born,” Ally says. “On her fourteenth birthday.”
Same age as Ally.
“C’mon,” Steve says, drunk and flirting with Megan. “Let’s go look at the other graves.” I get the hint and don’t tag along.
“You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Ally asks after our friends disappear.
“Sure.”
“How come?” She sits down and leans against the dead girl’s broken tombstone. I sit next to her.
“I guess it’s a little boring to think that I can touch everything that scares me.”
She considers my answer. I try to picture what she looks like under her sweatshirt, but the residual unease of the graveyard dulls my imagination. “That’s probably the best reason I’ve heard for believing in ghosts,” she says. “Still not going to convince me though.” She puts her hand on mine and leans against me. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose.
“How many funerals have you been to?” I ask.
“Just one. It was my grandpa’s. I was pretty young, so I didn’t understand the whole death thing. I just remember everyone crying. But I do remember him. It actually makes me pretty sad to think that I didn’t cry at his funeral.”
“You were little.”
“Yeah.”
“Kids are dumb.” I add, which makes her smile.
“I know.”
“So let’s say there are ghosts, and you could see any dead person you wanted. Would it be your grandpa?”
“So theoretically there are ghosts”—she looks up from my shoulder to emphasize her doubt—“and I could pick any dead person to see.” She pauses and considers her options. I move my arm around her shoulder so we’re cuddling. “I actually think I would want to see my old golden retriever, Brittany. I think seeing a ghost dog would be like a hundred times more adorable than seeing a human ghost.”
I knew she wouldn’t take my question seriously.
“Who would you want to see?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You know, you’re just afraid to say it. I’m afraid to say it too.”
“I don’t know if he’s dead though,” I say.
“Yeah—” Ally trails off. She snuggles closer to me, and my hand drops from her shoulder to her waist. “Do you miss him?”
“It seems a lot of things remind me of him lately,” I say.
She’s quiet before saying the words that I should’ve said, “I miss him.”
A breeze picks up. She leans in closer for warmth. The wind tosses dead leaves around in little whirlwinds and drowns out the shouting and laughter of our friends. Time slows down. Her hair blows in my face. I don’t even brush it away. The moonlight flickers on our moment. She raises her head and our eyes meet. She looks at me like a stranger. She leans in. With eyes closed in anticipation, I feel the warmth of her mouth pressing on
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